P  S 

3515 

U15 

T8 

1922 

MAIN 


TUJUNGA  SONGS 

by 

B.C.Huber 


GIFT   OF 


TUJUNGA  SONGS 

by 

B.  C.  Huber 


T — "The  work  shows  its  author  to  possess 
deep  poetic  feeling,  no  mean  power  of 
expression  and  decided  individuality  .  .  .  r 

Thomas  Seltzer. 

If— "A  real  poet  all  right,  we  are  con 
vinced,  but  ...'"  Floyd  Dell. 

*[[—  "The  poem  (Fairy  Circus)  was  the 
best  poem  I  ever  heard." 

Harry  Saperstein, 

Class  A-3  Fremont  Ave.  School 
Los  Angeles 

Tf— "Not  Marketable." 

Mrs.  Konrad  Bercovici. 

If— "Again  —  'The  stone  that  the  builders 
rejected.'"  Sholom  Asch. 

T — "America  needs  poets  more  than 
bread."  Sadakichi  Hartman. 


/3.  £. 


Tujunga  Songs 

by 

B.  C.  Huber 


Balboa  Beach,  California 
B.  C.  Huber 
1922 

All  rights  reserved 


.'--.  :    •'•' 


'' 


Copyrighted  1922 
by  B.  C.  Huber 


IS* 


H  At  /O 


Mother 


CONTENTS 


INVOKING  MERCURY  , 1 

THE  FAIRY  CIRCUS  2 

To  THOMAS  TROWARD  5 

THE  POET  AND  THE  QUEEN  6 

REVELATIONS   9 

FOOLISH  SONG  10 

CONCEPTION  11 

HERE  I  AM  12 

LISBY'S   GOAT 13 

LULLABY  14 

ENTER  BARNABAS 15 

DOT:  OR  THE  STUBBORN  PUP 16 

OFF  FALL  RIVER  20 

TUJUNGA  SONGS 

WHAT'S  IT  GOOD  FOR?  21 

BLOWING  UP  RAIN  22 

AFTER  THE  RAIN  23 

ALL  ALONE  DOWN  THE  ROAD  24 

A  RUSTLE  IN  THE  BRUSH  25 

MEDITATION  27 

THE  WHISKEY  BOTTLE  OF  THE  BIG  TUJUNGA 28 

FLOW  STONES  30 

CROSS  COUNTRY  31 

GLACE   BAY   34 

THE  LINEMEN  35 

PROGRESS 36 

WITH  UNKIND  WORDS  I  CUT  A  BOY 37 

YES 38 

BALLAD  OF  THE  SICK  HEART  ..  ...,39 


HERMAN  KUEHN  41 

DEATH  OF  LABOR  42 

SPRING  TO  THY  FULLNESS  43 

To  THEE  44 

SHELLEY 45 

'LONE 46 

SANDY  AND  I 47 

RIVER   50 

SONNETS 

BY  WORMS  THAT  BURROW 65 

IF  THOU  IN  INFANCY 66 

WHERE  ARE  THE  FLYING  BEAMS  67 

BEAUTY'S  PERFECTION  68 

IT  Is  IN  THEE  LOVE'S  DAUGHTER 69 

THY  BEAUTY  Is  A  FECUND  POWER  70 

NOT  OF  THE  WORLD  THAT  SEEMS  To  BE 71 

I  CALL  IT  HEALTH  72 

I  HEAR  MEN  TALK  OF  JESUS  73 

LOOK,  FROM  THE  SEED  OF  POWER  74 

IF  IT  WAS  FATED  '£RE  THE  MISTS  AROSE  75 

As  WHEN  THE  STARS  PRICK  THRU  THE  RESTING 
LEAVES   76 

I  RODE  A  STALLION  ..  ....77 


Invoking  Mercury 

Hullo,  swift  prankish  boy,  blind  Homer  heard 

And  saw  with  eyes  within  his  ear.    What  word 

Hast  thou  today  to  fling  confounding  'mong 

The  aged  babies  whom  decay  makes  young? 

Touch  once  again  the  strings  of  light  for  me 

As  when  thine  song's  persuasion,  swept  thee  free 

From  bright  Apollo's  vengeance.    Then  thou  sang 

For  Homer,  and  again  thru  Shelley  rang 

Thy  freshened  hymn.    If  now  the  winds  of  pleasure 

Blow  thee  to  me,  unlock  again  "the  treasure 

Of  thy  deep  song,"  and  spill  the  dust  of  earth 

In  shining  chords  within  me,  giving  birth 

Thru  music  drunk  from  love's  clear  crystal  river, 

To  marriage  with  myself.    A  gen'rous  giver 

Be,  sweet  thief.     Draw  back  on  the  wings  of  song 

Myself,  and  knit  my  wandering  halves  of  love  in  one. 

The  world's  afloat  within  the  mind  of  man — 

The  earth,  a  liquid  stone,  a  speck  of  dust, 

A  moving  point  producing  time,  yet  can 

Unfold  eternal.    Not  only  can,  but  must. 

Sing  then,  bright  laughing  drop.    Shout  thine  high  joy 

From  the  canyon's  pocket  over  the  hills. 

Scatter  my  dark  camp's  fiery  stars,  wild  boy, 

Upon  the  floor  of  night,  until  it  fills 

With  the  breathings,  and  meanings,  of  amorous  love. 

That's  mischief,  buttered  thick  with  laughter,  little  dove. 

Spill  now,  thy  bag  of  treasure  on  this  patch  of  ground, 

Sweeping  the  sands  of  reason  from  the  rock  of  sound. 


The  Fairy  Circus 

Come  boy  o'  mine, — up  on  my  knee. 

It's  story  time.    What  shall  it  be? 

The  Fairy  Circus?     What?  Again? 

Just  once?     All  right — Please  sit  still  then. 

To-night,  when  you  are  tucked  in  bed 
The  fairy  workmen,  come  to  spread 
The  lovely  circus  tent  of  mist, 
Where  all  performers  keep  the  tryst, 
Down  by  the  brook  beneath  the  moon, 
Where  frogs  and  crickets  creak  and  croon. 
Then  other  fairies  build  the  rings, 
While  spiders  spin  the  nets  and  strings 
For  trapeze,  tightrope;  all  such  things, 
As  need  a  finely  finished  line 
As  strong  as  steel  and  soft  as  twine. 
Before  their  tiny  hammers  cease, 
The  humming  noise  of  wings  increase; 
The  ticket  taker  takes  his  place, 
That  Jack-in-Pulpit  yields  with  grace. 
The  crowds  of  fairies  softly  light. 
They  seem  to  grow  from  out  the  night. 
They  come  on  bats  and  riding  rats. 
Great  crowds  arrive  on  owls  and  cats. 
They  hitch  their  steeds  outside  the  tent. 
The  children  first  within  are  sent 
To  pick  whichever  seats  they  wish 
Or  at  the  brook  edge  feed  the  fish. 
When  all  the  folks  are  seated  there, 
With  each  a  firefly  in  his  hair, 
And  glow  worms  set  to  light  the  place, 
And  show  to  friends  each  fairy's  face, — 


A-;. 


The  Master  Mummer  takes  his  stand — 
The  music  starts — In  comes  the  band. 
The  crickets  crick,  mosquitoes  hum, 
The  night  birds  call,  the  bull  frogs  drum; 
The  show  is  on.    The  pace  is  fast. 
From  now  till  dawn  the  fun  will  last. 
The  clowning  beetles  tumble  round. 
The  nimble  flees  scarce  touch  the  ground. 
White  mice,  to  chariots  harnessed,  race — 
The  fairies  driving  with  much  grace. 
Upon  the  brook  things  happen  too; 
Here  many  of  the  stunts  are  new. 
The  bugs  with  boats  of  air  for  feet, 
With  oarlike  hands  each  other  greet; 
Then  draw  off  quickly;  leap  and  fight; 
Fair  fish  swim  round  from  light  to  light. 
Toads  hop  a-turtle-back  and  skim 
From  distant  shore,  to  brook's  near  brim. 
The  boys  come  round  with  drinks  to  sell, 
All  cupped  in  valley  lily  bell, 
Distilled  from  nectar  by  the  bees; 
Who  would  refuse  is  hard  to  please. 
Soap  bubbles  blown  and  burst  to-day, 
Are  brought  to  life  and  help  the  play. 
A  push  ball  game  is  started  then; 
So,  fancy  serves,  for  fairy  men. 

From  dark  to  dawn,  thus  runs  their  mirth, 
For  fairies  joy  in  life  from  birth. 
But  when  the  eastern  dawn  draws  near, 
In  bubbles  fairies  disappear. 

You  ask,  "Where  was  the  Fairy  Queen?" 
My  dear;  each  fairy  girl's  the  queen 


Of  her  own  life,  and  every  boy's 

A  king.    The  fairy  life  is  joy; 

Each  fairy  does  just  what  he  will, 

While  doing  so  serves  no  one  ill. 

And  no  one  ever  says  him  nay, 

If  he  prefer  to  laugh  and  play. 

But  when  he  asks,  "Why?  What?  and  How?" 

No  fairy  says  "Don't  bother  now!" 

He  answers  always,  if  he  can, 

And  when  he  can't,  points  out  the  man 

That  will  know,  just  that  thing  he  asks. 

You  see;  the  fairies  have  no  tasks; 

As  naturally  as  flowers  they  grow, 

To  live,  and  love,  and  know,  and  know. 


To  Thomas  Troward 

You  know. 

Your  words  flow 

Calm  with  the  truth  as  they  go 

Swelling  with  mighty  bliss,  quietly  to  grow 

Into  an  irresistible  river  of  life  giving  light. 

You  comfort  me, 

Soothing  with  strong  knowledge, 

OfPring  the  Bread  and  Wine— 

Your  own  delight — now  mine. 

Elder  brother — 

With  the  pride  of  a  lover 

I  kiss  your  foot. 

You  taught  me 

Who 

I  am. 


The  Poet  and  the  Queen 

In  olden  days  the  human  race 
Contented  lived  with  noseless  face. 

A  poet  sang  delight  in  smell. 
The  people  kicked  him  into  hell. 

Seduced  by  beauty  in  the  rose 
To  dream  of  waiting  joys  unknown; 
By  God!     He  grew  himself  a  nose 
And  all  earth  smells  became  his  own. 
His  joyful  song  with  lilting  grace 
From  hell  assailed  the  noseless  race. 
The  queen  with  nothing  else  to  do 
Demanded  that  she  might  smell  too. 
The  flat  faced  wise  men  moaning  long 
Declared  her  wish  a  deadly  wrong 
Bred  by  the  hell  tuned  poet's  song 
That  ravishes  a  wanton  mind. 

"I  wish  to  smell;  the  poet  bring!" 
Said  the  queen  to  her  doleful  court. 
"The  queen  has  surely  lost  her  mind 
She's  ready  to  dance  if  the  devil  will  sing." 
Said  the  flattering  folk  as  the  poet  was  brought  in; 
— And  they  crowded  close  to  watch  her  sin. 
The  crowd  beheld  the  poet's  nose;— 
"Look  at  his  face.    Look  how  it  grows; 
The  face  is  no  place  to  have  a  toe  sprout." 
With  boisterous  laughter  the  people  shout. 
And  the  poet  stands  there  humbly  dumb. 
"That's  not  a  toe.     It  is  a  nose; 
The  thing  he  smells  sweet  smells  with," 


Said  the  Queen  intuitively. 

"It's  rather  ugly  I  admit, 

But  it's  interesting,  isn't  it?" 

She  said  to  her  smirking  court. 

"Oh  dear,  how  charming.  Don't  you  know." 

Declared  the  court  with  lusty  crow, 

And  a  moon-faced  dainty  lady 

Kissed  the  blushing  poet's  nose. 

Said  the  poet: 

"What  do  you  wish  of  me?" 
Said  the  Queen: 

"I  wish  to  smell." 
Said  the  poet: 

"First  you  must  dream  of  smells  and  dream  you  have  a  smeller." 
Said  the  Queen: 

"You'll  have  to  teach  me." 
The  singer  paused  and  stroked  his  nose 
Said  he  "Desire  knows  how  it  grows, 
But  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  do." 
The  vacant  crowd  heard  him  aghast; — 
"He  ridicules  our  Queen"  they  cry 
"His  smelling  songs  are  all  a  lie; 
Let's  kick  him  back  to  hell." 
"Yes  put  him  back,  but  treat  him  well; 
Oh  dear,  I  fear  I  shall  not  smell," 
Said  the  Queen — "Oh  well,  oh  well; — 
That  incident  is  closed." 

The  poet  went  back  into  his  hell 
And  there  he  sang  midst  lovely  smell 
Til  many  hearing  were  seduced. 
They  also  wished  his  joy  to  taste. 

Their  wish  at  last  became  a  knob. 

7 


Twixt  eyes  and  mouth,  with  itch  and  throb 
It  grew  into  a  nose. 

t 

Their  secret  lust  at  last  exposed 
Some  now  proclaimed  it  virtue. 
And  virtue  being  rewarded  well 
The  virtuous  only  thus  could  smell. 
The  mighty  hosts  of  noseless  good 
Howled  loud  at  this  strange  blasphemy. 
A  law  was  passed  by  counted  vote 
Of  the  allwise  majority. 
All  noses  grown  from  that  day  forth 
Were  declared  to  be  illegal. 

But  the  happy  poet  in  hell  sang  true 
'Til  all  our  secret  wishes  grew 
And  each  one  has  a  nose. 


Revelations 

Ho,  in  the  thickets — come  and  pipe, 
Come  woodsy  pipers — Spring  is  ripe, 
By  clear  high  ringing,  joyous  singing, 
To  be  set  free  from  winter  snow. 
Come,  pipe  with  me  the  song  we  know. 

Seeds,  sleeping,  thrill  and  wake; — 
Happy,    then,    their    life    thirst    slake 
And  kiss  the  brown  hills  green. 
Sun  and  new  buds  are  here. 
Love  and  dear  eggs  swing  near. 
Star  children  wait  unseen. 

Begin!  'tis  Spring! 

Sing  down  the  tripping  year! 

Soar  high  sweet  pipings  clear! 

Dread  winter  roaring  dark, 

Dies,  when  his  dead  dogs  bark 

Before  Life's  bubbling  song. 

Pipe  from  all  thickets,  clear  and  strong! 

Unchain  the  Spring. 


Foolish  Song 

My  belly  is  an  unwalled  room 
Where  men  and  women  I  consume. 
Each  carves  an  image  on  the  wall 
And  never  sees  the  joke  at  all. 

My  belly  moans  with  waning  stars 
That  wail  around  the  screaming  cars 
Abouncing  rough  on  bubble  wheels 
That  kiss  the  brakes  with  dusty  squeals. 

My  belly  leaps  with  laughing  lights 
In  squadrons  sailing  fallow  nights. 
They  plow  the  inky  surface  up 
And  furrow  fire  burns  in  my  cup. 


10 


Conception 

I  come  not  from  darkness, 

For  I  am  light. 

From  the  outskirts  of  space, 

From  the  interior  of  points, 

I  leaped  and  rushed, 

Shouldering  aside  the  many  colored  stars 

In  my  eager  desire. 

And  the  stars  joyed 

And  sang  a  sweeter  song, 

For  they  knew  I  was  pulled  by  love. 

I  pressed  myself 

And  all  creation 

To  a  point 

Within  a  liquid  pearl. 

I  swam 

And  grew  deliciously 

Into  a  baby. 

Why  do  I  cry? 


11 


Here  I  Am 

Warm,  in  the  soft  red  dark  I  lay, 

Safe  sunk  in  love,  in  mother's  garden. 

She  helped  me  build  me, 

She  without  and  I  within. 

At  my  command, 

Nine  moons,  enchanted, 

Sheathed  me  in  their  weightless  hands, 

Fleshed  me  strongly  in  myself, 

So  that  I  may  venture  forth. 

Hooray  joy! — Oh  I'm  eager! 

Mother  darling! — Let  me  out! 

I'm  a  woman! — Let  me  out! 

Did  I  hurt  you? — I  love  you  mother. 

Let  your  daughter  Lisby  out! 

Such  pain  is  glory. 

Heavens  crash  on  heavens  on  heavens  on  hells. 

Come  mother,  through  the  calm  firmaments. 

Ah!  Sweet! 

Here  I  am,  father!     Here  I  am! 


12 


Lisby's  Goat 

She  came;  the  gate  to  the  earth  opened  wide  at  her  call 
When  the  sweet  flowering  flesh  turned  the  key  to  the  Vast. 
And  many  deep  kisses  she  took  to  herself 
As  she  built  her  a  home  from  the  red  flood  that  passed 
Thru  the  garden  of  love,  where  enchanted  she  slept. — 
Till  with  kicks  and  a  yell,  as  a  habe  out  she  leapt. 

She  smiles;  The  great  soul  smiles  out  thru  her  soft  loving  eyes 

At  this  magic  new  life  that  is  bursting  to  form 

Like  a  plant  from  a  seed  in  a  hot  moist  spring 

When  the  pulse  of  the  earth  throbs  with  growth  quick  and  warm. 

She  laughs; — For  fresh  streams  of  living  run  bright  with  delight. 

From  the  green  wooded  rocks  in  their  sun  freighted  flood 
The  jewels  are  sifted  and  hung  in  a  bag 

Whence  she  draws  the  rich  sparkles  that  flow  in  her  blood. 
The  strength  of  the  mountain  slips  smooth  down  her  throat 
In  a  sweet  flow  of  pearl  from  dear  Lucy  her  goat. 


13 


Lullaby 

The  calves  say  baa  and  lie  down  to  rest. 
The  birds  all  dream  in  their  woven  nest. 
The  dark  falls  soft  on  the  hillside  bright, 
Cov'ring  all  for  the  night, 

With  sleep;  sweet,  deep,  sleep. 

Her  manchild  floats  in  his  mother's  arms, 
Dear  sleep  drifts  near  with  his  drowsy  charms. 
Snuggle  in  close  to  your  mother's  breast 
And  swim  down  deep  to  rest 

In  sleep,  loved  one;  sleep. 

The  stars  weave  songs  in  my  darling's  sleep, 
The  fairies  lull  him  with  kisses  deep. 
They  build  new  days  full  of  happy  joy 
By  night  for  mother's  boy. 

In  sleep;   sweet,  deep,  sleep. 

Dear  soul,  in  thy  soft  pink  bud  of  flesh, 
At  dawn  thou  shalt  wake  with  petals  fresh, 
Washed  bright  by  the  dews  that  waft  in  sleep 
From  rivers  hidden  deep. 

He  sleeps;  my  baby  sleeps. 


14 


Enter  Barnabas 

Purple  circles  shimmer  in  colliding  waves 
Folding  up  the  velvet  mountains  of  the  night 
Stretching  thin  the  filming  dusk  that  bound  the  caves 
To  darkness,  till  bulging  pockets  burst  in  flowers  of  light. 
Glowing  pansies,  smiling,  flutter  by  in  hordes 

Leading  the  romping  flowers  to  the  fire  rimmed  sea 

Rivers  of  candles  of  heaven  wave  their  swords 
Laughing  as  they  flow  flaming  thru  the  heart  of  the  lea. 
Blisters  on  the  curtain  burst — the  drops  shine  clear 
Lit  by  the  light  on  tender  lips — A  red  yawn 
Opens  the  womb  of  compassion — and  drab  fear 
Slinks  off  with  her  soiled  rags — leaving  the  lusty  dawn. 

A  thunderbolt,  a  quiv'ring  kiss,  a  strong  man 

Is  here — meditating  Love. 


15 


Dot 

or 

The  Stubborn  Pup 

I'm  a  brindle  bull — my  name  is  Dot. 
Tho  my  ears  are  long — my  tail  is  not, 
For  my  breeder  bit  the  last  part  off. 
But  the  wag  he  left  behind  for  me 
When  I  still  was  a  sucking  puppy. 

When  one  month  old,  I  was  lightly  sold, 

For  ten  round  dollars,  hard  and  cold 

— Tho  at  iirst  quite  sad — I  was  soon  right  glad, 

For  my  new  boss  was  a  fresh  young  kid 

Who  approved  of  everything  I  did. 

'First  he  kept  me  swelled  so  tight  with  milk, 
That  my  belly  felt  as  fine  as  silk, 
And  I  smiled  and  slept  and  ate  and  smiled. 
Tho  the  experts  said  this  should  never  be — 
My  belly  and  Bill  both  agreed  with  me. 

Soon  I'd  run  and  wrastle  all   day  long 
And  growl  at  the  people  that  didn't  belong 
In  the  yard  that  belonged  to  me  and  Bill. — 
— With  my  strong  teeth  sunk  in  young  Bill's  hat, 
He  could  sling  me  around — a  fine  trick,  that. 

And  the  Reilly's  dog  would  jump  our  fence, 
To  come  and  carouse — My!  that  dog  had  sense! — 
He  taught  me  to  snap,  to  tackle  and  dodge — 
With  tail  for  a  rudder,  he'd  turn  with  a  flounce — 
I  sure  had  to  hustle  to  keep  up  with  Bounce. 

16 


With  my  nose  to  guide  us — whatever  Bill  did — 
We'd  trail  him  and  find  him — no  matter  where  hid — 
And  we'd  bark  and  say — "Bill — Please  do  it  again" — 
So  he'd  pick  up  our  ball  and  throw  it  away — 
Or  some  such  fine  business  would  fill  all  our  day. 

Then  in  May,  when  we'd  wilted,  and  quite  lost  our  vim, 
Bill  went  in  the  river  and  I  learned  to  swim. 
When  later  Bill  sailed  and  canoed  and  had  fun, 
Overboard  I  could  jump  and  take  care  of  myself — 
They  couldn't  put  a  smart  pup  like  me  on  the  shelf. 

But  I  wouldn't  learn  any  darn  fool  doggish  tricks — 
I  wouldn't  play  dead — or  jump  over  sticks. 
If  any  old  fogey  said, — "Come  with  me,  Dot" — 
My  right  arm  would  pain  me — I'd  hold  up  my  paw — 
— Twas  the  best  little  trick  that  ever  you  saw. 

And  when  the  old  slow  ones  were  gone  from  my  sight, 
I'd  fetch  on  my  ball  and  bark  loud  with  delight. — 
And  Bill,  that  good  feller,  would  play  my  own  game — 
For  Bill  understood  more  or  less  what  I  knew, — 
That  the  thing  that's  most  fun  is  the  best  thing  to  do. 

Just  once  Bill  attempted  to  break  my  strong  will. — 
The  fight  that  I  gave  him,  almost  made  him  ill. — 
He  said,  "Come  along" — and  I  said,  "I'll  stay  here," — 
He  beat  me  and  kicked  me  and  banged  me  around, 
Till  I  couldn't  distinguish  'tween  smell,  sight  and  sound. 

In  spite  of  the  roar  and  the  dimness,  'twas  grand, 
And  Bill  found  his  old  Dot  was  just  chuck  full  of  sand. 
— When  at  last  in  despair,  he  had  to  give  up — 
Bill  saw  he  might  kill  me — I  couldn't  stand — 
We  both  understood — and  I  licked  his  dear  hand. 

17 


And  after  that  licking,  Bill  knew  very  well, 
That  all  the  raw  devils  that  force  men  in  hell, 
Couldn't  make  me  say  "yes,"  when  I  wished  to  say  "no." 
So  since  that  great  day,  tho  we've  had  lots  of  fun, 
Bill  says  with  respect — "Dot's  one  son  of  a  gun." 

A  brown  cocker  spaniel  named  Jack  lives  next  door, 
Bounce  tells  me  with  candor  that  Jack  is  a  boor. — 
It  may  be — I'm  certain  he  don't  know  too  much. — 
Jack  doesn't  like  us,  for  Bill  don't  like  Jack's  Jim. — 
Pouf — I'm  smart  enough  to  bamboozle  him. 

Jack  comes  every  morning  quite  soon  after  dawn, 
To  get  rid  of  his  droppings  upon  our  front  lawn. — 
So,  of  course,  I  drop  my  drops  in  his  front  yard  too. — 
That  dog  don't  know  yet  how  to  rob  a  swill  pail — 
So  I  tip  over  his — and  the  boob  wags  his  tail. 

Yes,  one  of  my  friends  is  Bagheera,  our  cat. — 

Tho,  poor  chap,  he's  no  dog,  one  can't  blame  him  for  that. 

If  another  cat  dare  to  set  foot  in  our  yard, 

With  a  yelp  I  am  off,  and  that  cat's  up  a  tree — 

Or  over  the  fence — no  cat  can  face  me. 

Bagheera  is  diff'rent.     He  came  when  so  small, 

One  nip  would  have  killed  him — that's  no  fun  at  all — 

And  besides  he  was  Bill's  and  of  course  I  love  Bill, 

So  after  I've  eaten  as  much  as  I  can, 

I  share  with  old  Bag  as  I  would  with  a  man. 

Old  Bag's  fur  is  downy — He's  soft  and  smells  sweet — 
It's  fine  when  he's  snuggly  'nd  curls  up  'tween  my  feet. 
Then  I  let  him  lick  me  with  his  neat  little  tongue — 
— But  what  I've  said  is  private — Let  no  other  dog  hear — 
— Twould  only  stir  up  talk  and  dogs  would  say — "Old 
Dot  is  queer." 

18 


But  jumping  barks  and  waggles— How  I've  talked  away 

the  time — 

I  am  really  very  busy  and  I  hear  the  supper  chime. 
I've  got  a  bone  to  bury — and  I  want  to  smell  our  post. 
A  strange  dog  has  left  his  card  there — and  here's  the 

scent  of  three  strange  men. — 
So  I  know  that  you'll  excuse  me — and    I    hope    we'll 

meet  again. 


19 


Off  Fall  River 

The  long  ebb  has  reached  the  glassy  slack. 

Flood  tide  will  soon  make  in. 

All  day  the  hot  calm  has  beat  upon  us  and  the  bay, 

Which  lies,  a  gray  mirror  rimmed  with  distant  hills 

Awaiting  in  poignant  balance 

To  drink  of  the  renewing  surge  from  the  sea. 

The  gulls  know. 
The  fish  know. 

And  the  fishermen  are  ready  with  baited  hook  to  take 
the  coming  bounty. 

Ah — there  she  comes — The  breeze. 

The  dark  streak  spreading  from  the  southwest  over  the 

water. 
The  stifling  heat  is  gone  with  the  first  whiff. 

The  canvas  slats. 

The  sheet  blocks  thrash  madly. 

The  anchor  is  clear. 

The  boom  swings  as  her  head  pays  off. 

With  a  good  full 

Our  sweet  boat  heels  to  the  fresh  salt  breath  from  the  sea. 

She  leaps  with  life. 

The  deck  goes  under  as  she  sways  before  a  strong  puff 

And  carries  on. 

jfp 

Playful  wisps  of  spray  dash 
Drenching  with  their  cold  lash 
Whipped  lightly  over  the  bow. 
With  a  wild  joy  the  wind  is  screaming; 
Even  now  the  blue  bay's  creaming 
With  the  rushing  white  caps 
Of  the  dancers. 

20 


What's  It  Good  For? 

Sprawled  on  a  shelf  of  stone,  shaded  by  a  mountain. 
Sheer    walls    of    rock — rain-carved — whiskered    by    the 

bushy  grasses 
Sun     baked — wrinkled — ochre     tinted — crowned     with 

grey-brown,  green-grey  brush. 

A  lid  of  blue — illumined — a  ceiling  without  arches. 
Rustling  leaves  and  combing  swishes  booming. 
Many  waters  rush. 

A  cloud  of  bells  swift  rolling  mistily  below. 
Amorous    throated    moon    ripe    women    singing    'mid 

tinkling  silver. 

A  baby's  tiny  cry  upspilling. 
Soft  drowsy  air — sleep  laden — bringing  kisses. 
A  lizard  skitting  'long  the  edge. 
Dream   music   drowning   day   upon   the   ledge. 
What's  it  good  for? 


21 


Blowing  Up  Rain 

Dry  blows  the  wind  from  the  desert 

Washing  the  sky. 

Dusk  fills  the  bowl  of  the  hills. 

Jagged  the  ranks  of  the  mountains 

Shoulder  the  night. 

Mistletoe  breaks  from  the  sycamore 

Cold  burns  the  glittering  sky. 

The  surf  of  the  waves  of  the  wind  roars 

High  o'er  the  river. 


22 


After  The  Rain 

Hail  to  the  white  fleece  drifting 

Under  the  downturned  bowl  of  the  moon. 

Sing  Ho  to  the  cold  air  sifting 

Over  the  north-west  shaggy  crags. 

The  sand  is  hot  today  and  sparkling 

Are  the  jewels  in  the  boulders  by  the  river. 

April  quivers  laughing  with  her  kisses  in  the  alders 

And  the  willow  leaves  are  dancing  with  their  shivering 

silvery  lights 
In  the  clean,  rough  wind. 

Life  lies  on  the  hot  white  sands 
In  the  lee  of  the  rocks'  smooth  pastel  musings, 
And  from  the  coves  of  color 
The  rugged  brown  and  wild  green  mountains 
Shoulder  the  frozen  pool  of  blue 

That  slides  the  boisterous  sun    down    the    tuned    and 
poised  west. 

High  over  the  peaks  two  eyes  look  down  as  we  look  up. 
An  eagle  wheels  beneath  the  snow  cup  of  the  moon. 


23 


All  Alone  Down  the  Road 

All  alone  down  the  road  trot  along  in  a  jog, 
Cross  the  stream  rolling  by,  belled  with  light,  on  a  log. 
Call  the  dogs,  here  they  come,  let  them  come,  come  along. 
Every  step  as  it  hits  strikes  the  time  for  a  song. 
Let  the  air  wash  the  blood,  thru  the  nose  let  it  rush! 
Let  the  sweat  dress  the  skin  as  the  dew  decks  the  brush. 
Sweet  the  kiss  of  the  earth  spreads  her  rootlets  within. 
Now  the  stars  and  the  grass  in  my  flesh  are  akin. 

High  the  trail  winds  among  dreaming  trees  in  the  sun. 
Here  I  lie  with  my  dogs  as  they  pant  from  their  run, 
In  the  shade  of  the  smooth  skinned  manzanita  bush, 
Where  his  leaves  breaking  green  from  his  red,  gently  hush 
His  branches'  anguish,  to  carved  green  fretwork  on  the 
burnished  blue. 

Now  the  dogs  gnaw  the  bones  of  a  dry  shriveled  fox 
That  the  trapper  in  the  winter  cast  below  on  the  rocks 
When  the  fur  was  skinned  to  deck  the  pretty  lady  sex. 

Far  the  still  hills  heave  their  law  abiding  curves 
Away  away  all  around,  and  the  sound 
Of  the  wind  in  the  trees  across  the  valley 
Is  a  sigh  sweet  with  peace :  or  a  cry  of  alarm. 


24 


A  Rustle  in  the  Brush 

When  the  moon  in  golden  slippers,  walks 

Over  the  eastern  rim,  a  woman  to  her  demon  talks 

And  listens  well  to  him.     She  sits  upon  a  gravel  gash 

Beneath  a  buckhorn  bush. 

Then  falls  her  jeweled  dusky  hair 

Around  her  knees,  like  starlit  night  upon  two  sunset  peaks 

And  silently  her  demon  speaks. 

Six  foxes  glide  along  the  halls 
Whose  roof  is  perfumed  lilac  balls. 
They  come  to  her  on  light  toed  feet. 
Their  waving  tails  the  woman  greet. 
Six  quail  before  her  throne  they  place 
An  off 'ring  to  her  hidden  face 
That  she  return  them  secret  grace. 

The  woman  touches  with  her  toe 
Each  quail's  head  where  the  crest  plumes  grow. 
And  then  the  dance  begins, — The  prayer  dance  of  the 
foxes. 

"Out  of  the  lilac,  under  the  thorn. 

Leap  to  the  hogback,  treading  with  scorn. 

Prance.     Let  the  pebbles  go  rolling  below. 

Keen  read  the  air,  laugh  contempt  at  the  foe. 

There's  nought  the  man  does  that  the  fox  doesn't  know, 

'Ware  of  the  iron  smell  close  to  the  trail. 

The  hound  is  a  plodder,  not  so  the  Airdaile. 

Sweet  fleetness,  Oh  Wild  Woman,  give  to  our  legs. 

Let  his  nose  lead  the  fox  where  the  quail  lays  her  eggs. 

Give  the  boldness  of  cunning,  Red  Woman  most  fair — 

— Hsst — the  reek  of  a  man  and  his  dog  taints  the  air.'* 


25 


The  gravel  gash  shines  silver  white — 
A  wound  cut  in  the  velvet  sheen 
That  clothes  the  placid  hills  of  night. 
No  sound  is  heard — nor  movement  seen. 


26 


Meditation 

Number  seven  tennis  shoes  are  on  my  feet 

Which  are  over  my  head 

Resting  on  the  ends  of  my  nice  legs, 

Which  lean  against  the  cool  violet  bark  of  a  manzanita 

trunk 

On  the  edge  of  a  cliff, 

Where  I  lie  on  my  back  in  the  clean  dust — 
In  the  hot  wind  and  the  speckled  shade 
Dozing, 

And  wondering, 

Who  is  rolling  rocks  in  the  river  below. 
'Til  I  hear  a  horse  whinny, 
And  then  I  wonder 
Why   I'm  here  with    everything    arranged    around    so 

conventionally  promiscuous 
'Til  I  catch  a  flying  phrase  on  the  wing — 
I  read  it  somewhere — 
"Significance  of  form" — 

But  in  my  hand  it  yields  plenty  of  feathers,  but  no  bird, 
Til  I  remember  the  breasts  and  the  lips  and  the  eyes 

of  my  love 

And  then  I  get  up  and  go  to  her 
To  read  her  this  I've  written  here, 
And  she  will  know  it  is  a  kiss. 


27 


The  Whiskey  Bottle  of  the  Big 
Tujunga 

Out  of  the  dust  of  the  earth,  man  formed  me, 

Blown  by  his  breath,  in  the  glowing  sand. 

Flat  for  his  hip,  and  wide  as  his  pocket, 

He  shaped,  as  he  blew  me,  and  gave  me  command 

To  carry  hot  kisses,  his  head  and  his  hand, 

Should  ravish  from  rye  babies,  thralled  by  the  sun, 

In  the  long  winter  sleep  ere  they  spring  from  the  land. 

Then  full  of  the  dark  liquid  amber  fire  imps, 

Tight  corked  and  labeled,  "The  Best  of  Scotch  Rye," 

I  joggle  around  in  the  dark  in  old  boxes, 

While  my  imps  dance  with  anger  and  gleefully  cry: — 

"Give  us  a  man  as  quick  as  you  can. 

Let  us  bewitch  him,  pinch  him  and  twitch  him. 

Make  him  see  lies,  fumble  his  eyes, 

Muffle  his  ears  and  pickle  his  fears, 

Til  he  bawl  like  a  calf, 

At  his  wit  that  is  fit, 

For  only  the  slave  that  is  free. 

Let's  dance  with  his  spark  to  a  fuddling  cark, 

Lest  he  lift  but  a  bit  of  the  lid  off  o'  hell. 

Oh  boy — sing  cuckoo." 

My  imps  have  their  wish,  for  a  man  comes  and  buys  me. 
Away  on  his  hip,  warm  and  soft,  I  now  ride. 
Up  'mong  the  hills  and  in  canyons  we  wander, 
The  pack  burros  leading  with  dawdling  stride. 
My  man  follows,  dreaming  of  riches  to  squander, 
That  grow  like  the  mistletoe,  hung  from  his  pride. 

Chuckling  my  imps  make  their  gurgling  escape, 

And  dance  in  the  blood  of  the  jazz  wooing  dreamer, — 

28 


Building  a  kingdom  and  making  him  king, — 
Dooming  their  throned  one,  to  beg  for  his  throne, 
'Til  he  lies  down  to  sleep,  and  awakes  with  a  moan, 
To  find  the  last  imp  is  kissed  limp  in  his  blood, — 
— And  empty,  I  land  on  the  sand  with  a  thud. 

Here,  on  the  sands  of  the  Big  Tujunga, 
While  the  seasons  whirled,  I've  lain. 
Blue  and  gold,  kissed  green  and  silver — 
Sunbeams,  dancing,  lured  the  rain, 
And  the  singing  waters  gurgled  blithely, 
On  their  rollick  to  the  sea. 

This  was  peace  and  beauty, 

'Til  one  day  a  man  came, 

Seized  me  by  the  neck,  flung  me  'gainst  a  rock, 

And  with  a  tinkling  plop,  I  smashed  to  smithereens. 

"One  deed  irrevocable!"  said  my  murderer. 

Some  day  my  smashed  body  will  rot. 

But— 

I'm  no  mortal  bottle. 

I'm  a  poem  forever. 


29 


Flow  Stones 

Flow — stones  and  hills  and  trees. 

Sing — men  and  birds.     Croon  frogs. 

Bright  bees — twang  sweet  the  strings  of  sunlit  air. 

Mix  all  in  me  thy  harmony. 

Then  from  my  thrilling  lips 

Take  flight. 

Fly  thru  the  rolling  earth  on  winged  words. 

In  showers  of  glory  fall  on  thirsty  hearts. 

Like  crystal  balls  with  music  filled 

Soft  colored  by  the  tears  distilled 

From  yearning  mother  eyes, 

Burst  there  in  golden  smiles 

And  silver  laughter. 


30 


Cross  Country 

Come  on.  Got  your  sweaters?  It  is  cold  here  outside. 
Set  the  pace,  Johnny  Jones.  Follow  John,  hit  your  stride. 
We're  away.  What  a  day  for  a  blood  easing  run — 

For  the  first  hundred  yards,  like  a  shot  from  a  gun 
Johnny  leads  and  the  bunch  follows  trailing  behind. 
Then  he  slows  and  we  close  to  a  steady  running  pack. 
Look!     It  snows,  but  our  toes,  getting  cold,  soon  will 

warm. 

Pat  O'Neil,  full  o'  hell,  has  to  slap  Johnny's  back;— 
Then  they  break  from  our  midst,  racing  gaily  away. 
Steady  there — Save  your  wind — Let  the  frisky  puppies 

play. 
Take  your  time. — Seven  miles  is  our  stunt  for  today. 

Here  we  turn  from  the  road,  'cross  a  field  to  the  woods, 
With  the  pitter  patter  potter  of  our  feet,  muffled  soft 
By  the  snow,  one  or  two  inches  deep  on  the  ground. 
Now  our  blood,  flowing  free,  makes  our  cozy  bodies 

warm, 

As  we  trot  supple  legged  thru  the  woods  in  the  storm; 
And  the  snow,  as  it  falls,  kisses  pink  steaming  flesh, 
And  we  stick  out  our  tongues,  catching  flakes,  falling 

fresh. 

Oh,  it's  calm  in  the  storm,  to  let  your  legs  drift  along 
And  be  borne  in  the  arms  of  the  wind  as  you  run, 
While  the  snow    sifting    down,    spreads    enchantment 
around. 

Come  along.    Follow  close  here  behind  Micky's  back. 

31 


Watch  his  legs  swell  and  lift,  stretch  and  drop,  as  they  fly. 
See  his  feet  kiss  the  ground;  watch  the  play  of  his  thigh 
And  the  curve  of  his  hips  and  the  part  of  his  lips. 
Smell  the  sweat  of  sweet  flesh,  on  the  air  damp  and  fresh, 
See  the  smoke  of  his  breath  and  the  swing  of  his  arms: — 
And  the  poise  of  his  head's  not  the  least  of  his  charms. 
Thus  we  jog,  'til  we're  clear  of  the  woods.    Cross  a  field 
Full  of  stubble  speared  nubbles,  sticking  brown  out  of 

white, 

And  we  puff,  and  breathe  deep  with  delight,  as  we  greet 
A  springy  dirt  road,  that  lends  wings  to  our  feet. 

Down  the  road  now,  we  go,  with  a  full  swinging  stride 
Past  a  farm,  where  the  chickens  flap,  cackle  and  hide, 
And  the  children  press  noses  to  windows  to  see. 

Then,  sharp  to  the  right,  we  turn,  straight  down  the  lane, 
Past  the  pens  where  the  feeding  pigs  squeal  and  protest, 
And  the  air  is  rich  laden  with  damp  manure  smells. 
Jump  the  fence  at  the  end.     Then  cross  stubble  again. 
Climb  the  hill.     It's  so  steep,  that  we  gradually  slow 

down  to  a  walk, 
And  our  tongues  hang  out,  and  we're  blown  at  the  top. 

Come  away.    Say  hooray.    Stick  your  legs  out  and  coast. 
Let  your  feet  drop  ahead.     Let  your  body  be  led 
Thru  the  gate  to  the  road — two  miles  now  to  the  gym, 
And  down  hill  all  the  way.    Let  her  go;  this  is  play; 
So,  with  pride,  lengthen  stride,  for  we're  strong. 

Bill  and  Pat,  out  ahead,  race  away  in  the  lead, 

And  the  close  running  pack,  stringing  out,  follows  fast. 

Some  at  ease,  drift  along,  while  for  some  it's  top  speed; 

But  the  fun  of  the  run,  in  the  gathering  dusk, 

'Long  the  tree  shadowed  street,  on  our  fleet  flying  feet, 

32 


Is  the  joy  in  a  body,  that's  tuned  to  the  earth, 
Thrilled  by  swift  singing  blood,  chanting  sweet,  "Life 
is  good." 

So  we  race  past  the  lake,  weary  glad  to  the  gym, 

To  wash  clean  in  the  shower,  and  glow  fresh  from  a  swim, 

And  dress  slowly,  content,  while  the  gang  yell  their  jokes; 

And  then  go,  walking  slow,  thru  the  thick  falling  snow, 

Along  flicker  lit  streets,  in  the  dark  early  night, 

To  the  supper  that  waits  for  our  bellies'  delight, 

In  the  warm  cozy  room,  we  call  home. 


33 


Glace  Bay 

There's  fascination  in  the  pit  no  doubt — 

The  clinging  blackness  of  the  chambered  night 

Stirred  dimly  by  the  stunted  pitboy's  shout — 

The  shadows  sliding  numbly  round  his  light. — 

The  jewels  in  the  pillared  walls  of  dusk 

That  welcome  with  their  darts  the  lantern's  gleam- 

The  rats  that  snatch  the  careless  crumb  or  husk 

Dropping  beyond  the  miner's  shadowed  beam. 

Somewhat  the  light  does  lend  to  thrill  the  dark 

And  by  the  blest  comparison  doth  woo. 

But  oh — the  pit  mouth's  singing  golden  spark 

Whose  finger  beckons  to  the  dome  of  blue. 

Naught  stirs  within  the  night  of  ignorance 
But  shadows  of  the  Word's  invigorance. 


The  Linemen 

Frontiersmen — pushing  back  time  and  space. 

Creatures  at  ease  above  the  earth 

The  linemen, 

Boldly  wary, 

Stretch  the  talking  threads  from  pole  to  pole, 

Place  the  cables  that  guide  and  restrain 

The  invisible  Geni, — 

The  dangerous  servant, — 

While  their  bodies  and  arms 

Unsmothered  by  the  distance, 

Sing. 


Progress 

High  on  the  roof  a  fat  man  dickers  with  a  lady 

For  her  leg  in  marriage. 

Among  a  backward  people 

A  man  resigns  the  highest  office, 

Saying, 

"No  person  wise  enough  to  govern  man." 

Across  the  sea  an  army  of  little  bones 

Press  shrinking  skins  of  children 

Whose  questioning  eyes  glow  dull  behind  drab  curtains, 

Swaddling  their  futile  whimpers. 

The  flag  waves  over  the  bank. 

And  down  the  bay 

Some  men  hang  by  their  wrists  in  chains 

In  dungeons  under  sea — Free? 


36 


With  Unkind  Words  I  Cut  a  Boy 

With  unkind  words  I  cut  a  boy — deep 

Perhaps — 

He  cut  me  back  with  his  wry  wince  of  pain 

Recalling  the  unkind  words 

That  beat  me  back  within  my  self's  dark  dreamings 

And  escapings, 

When  the  boy  I  was, 

Sucked  at  the  world,  like  him. 

Now  I  will  take  my  fault  and  roll  it  over  in  the  light 

That  throws  no  shadows. 

Where  is  it? 

Gone? 


37 


Yes 

Come.    Shut  your  eyes  and  we'll  both  fly, 

Out  into  the  Vast,  that  is  known  to  lie 

Just  inside  the  mansion,  where  dreams  are  born. 

Come.    Fall. 

Don't  hold  on. — 

Let  everything  go. 

First  we'll  take  an  ocean, 

And  warm  it  with  a  sun, 

Until  great  clouds  of  mist  arise, 

And  when  they  have  begun, 

To  sail  off  on  the  gentle  breeze 

Our  laughter  fans  along, 

We'll  fling  white  light  beams  in  and  out 

To  thrill  with  a  kiss  each  sober  drop, — 

And  for  love  of  the  drops,  the  beams  shall  burst 

Into  colored  song,  in  the  magic  arch, 

That  marries  the  sky  and  the  earth  and  the  air, 

To  the  light  that  flames  in  Man. 

Come  on.  Leap  easy,  to  the  tip  o'  the  top  of  our  Rainbow. 
Now  we'll  slide  down  the  colors  to  the  bottom  of  Heaven. 
Hold.  Let's  stop  this  falling. 


38 


Ballad  of  the  Sick  Heart 

Oh  Man  drives  man  across  the  earth 
Driving  Oh    Fighting  Oh 
And  laughter  speeds  at  every  birth 
To  Anger  Oh  and  Woe  Oh. 

The  happy  dead  dance  round  the  hearse 
Leaping  Oh  and  laughing  Oh 
The  corpse  within  is  every  curse 
Melting  Oh  away  Oh. 

The  winding  sheet  is  dream  begemmed 
Sparkling  Oh  shining  Oh 
Enwrapping  cringing  babes  condemned 
To  living  Oh  and  weeping  Oh. 

The  stink  flies  off  to  outer  dark 
Away  Oh  forever  Oh 
Thru  smoking  teeth  the  furies  bark 
The  body  Oh  is  burning  Oh. 

The  cringing  babes  arise  with  cries 
Of  anger  Oh  and  joy  Oh 
With  swords  of  light  they  rip  the  skies 
Bright  flashes  Oh  Wild  laughter  Oh. 

In  crystal  nets  they  mesh  the  suns 
For  wisdom  Oh  is  walking  Oh 
And  naked  where  the  werwolf  runs 
His  ravening  is  transcending  Oh. 


39 


The  numbered  numbers  raise  their  feet 
Creation  Oh  moves  onward  Oh 
And  long  still  hearts  again  thrill  sweet 
The  legions  Oh  are  coming  Oh. 

Eight  suns  are  rising  side  by  side 
The  Evening  Oh   The  Morning  Oh 
The  Children  guide  the  rising  tide 
Onswelling  Oh  Outrolling  Oh 

And  soggy  hearts  lift  liltingly 
Deep  drinking  Oh  the  Waters  Oh 
And  blithesome  toes  skip  trippingly 
Or  wander  slow  so  peaceful  Oh. 


40 


Herman  Kuehn 

You  spoke  without  conceit  to  put  again 

Your  thought  in  books. — If  many  scribes  drew  fire 

From  your  warm  light  to  heat  an  eager  pen 

Your  kindling  words  did  cherish  their  desire. 

So  many  used — so  few  acknowledged  thee 

To  be  the  pilot  that  thou  wast  to  us 

When  from  accustomed  channels  out  to  sea 

We  bore,  to  find  the  new  lands  calling  us. 

Beneath  an  oak  thy  shadow's  ashes  lie 

But  I  have  light  from  thee  to  dwell  with  me 

That  lends  my  weeping  words  a  joyous  cry 

For  thou  didst  glow  with  Immortality. 

The  blackening  clouds  embalm  the  tempest's  doom, 
But  thou  didst  melt  with  light  a  time  walled  tomb. 


41 


The  Death  of  Labor 

The  ancient  curse,  wrath  swollen  as  he  dies 
Sweeps  wildly  with  his  arms  of  cloud; — 
Gropes  blindly  with  his  mirage  shroud 
To  smother  out  the  Godhead  light  that  lies 
Serenely  waxing; — as  the  mystic  curtain, 
Fold  after  fold  dissolving  in  the  truth, 
Reveals  as  law  immutable — that  ruth 
Alone  sustains  what  is. — That  certain 
As  the  birth  of  love  in  man; — with  growth 
Of  love — the  curse  is  doomed 
To  be  consumed  by  playful  laughter, 
While  the  woman  shall  eat  freely  of  the  Tree 
And  whatever  beauty  man  conceives  shall  be 
As  easily  as  ripened  apple  drops  to  earth 
And  he  who  lives  shall  lazily  give  birth 
To  Self  yet  more  alive. — By  Freedom's  Law. 


42 


Spring  To  Thy  Fullness 

Spring  to  thy  fullness 

Oh  waiting  hour. 

I  hear  thy  walking  thru  the  murmurous  talking 

Of  the  waters. 

Thy  restful  power  o'erleaps  the  tumbling  oceans 

Beaming  from  my  lips  in  clean  sweet  cuts  of  Light 

Thru  the  black-walled  Night. 

Thy  purple  fingers  bud  from  out  the  stem  of  Evening. 

Thy  closebound  cloaking  darkness  splits; 

And  now  thy  face, 

Washed  bright  with  dew  of  glory, 

Floods  forth  the  Morning,  thru  the  dust  strewn  skies. 

Unsqeakable  Remembrance. 

Loosing  my  heart  in  ecstasy  to  smiling  tears; — 

I  taste  thy  joy. 

Come  near!     Come  near!     Oh  Fateful  Hour, 

And  yet  more  near. 

I  yearn!     I  swell!  I  burst  to  flower! 


43 


To  Thee 

Place  Thou  Thy  finger  in  my  upreached  hand 
That  when  my  young  feet  stumble  I  may  not  fall. 
Let  me  chuckle  as  we  run  thru  the  forest  with  the  wolf: 
I  with  Thee,  more  tireless  than  his  easy  lope. 
Bind  Thou  Thine  single  eye  within  my  heart 
And  blaze  and  play  thru  out. 

My  feet  are  on  the  climbing  trail. 

The  morning  goes  before  me 

And  the  purple  peaks  flush  gold. 

The  dreadful  valleys  of  the  night 

Spring  out  in  beauty  at  my  smile 

And  my  wolf  mounts  guard  over  the  deer  upon  the  hills. 


44 


Shelley 

His  body  burned,  his  heart  lay  unconsumed; 
A  fiery  stone,  whose  magic  flame  devoured 
The  veil  of  dream — and  by  his  word  empowered, 
Revealed  the  true  within — where  lay  enwombed, 
The  bloom  that  seeded  in  all  seed  that  flowered, 
From  never  to  the  end  of  ever. 


45 


'Lone 

I  sang  my  song  of  a  lonely  soul 

But  no  song  sang. 

I  dropped  my  bell  in  an  unwalled  hole 

And  no  bell  rang. 

I  flung  my  star  at  an  empty  sky 
But  no  star  shone. 
I  searched  the  world  to  find  an  eye 
To  see  my  own. 

A  formless  night 
Ate  up  the  light, 
And  darkness  moaned. 

Then  I  wept  and  sucked  at  my  mother's  breast 
In  shadowed  night. 

She  strangely  smiled  and  more  strangely  pressed 
Me  with  delight. 

A  gay  little  bird  on  a  great  grey  rock 
Chirped  a  song  at  me. 
He  turned  the  key  in  a  time  bound  lock 
And  dropped  the  key. 


46 


Sandy  and  I 

Back  we  come  from  the  peak, 

My  silent  dog  and  I, 

Threading  the  tunnelled  passageways 

The  patient  cattle  bored 

When  blindly  shouldering  thru  the  brush 

They  sought  to  lose  their  flies. 

Here  is  our  secret  haven 

Secure  from  the  mad  men  of  the  towns. 

Yes,  Sandy. 

Cold  oatmeal  in  plenty 

And  hot  red  beans  shall  fill  our  bellies. 

Don't  growl  you  dear  poop. 

It's  only  that  big  bull  ranging. 

He  wants  a  loving  cow,  not  us. 

Besides,  men  can  pass  up  the  creek  bed  any  time 

And  never,  never  see  us, 

We're  so  safely  hid  behind  the  barbed  bush. 

And  then,  you  know,  old  waggles, 

No  one  has  passed  by  in  all  the  weeks  we've  lived  here. 

Go  ahead  and  eat  now,  you  bottomless  pit. 

Ah!  It's  good  to  lie  here  in  the  brush 
With  full  bellies.    Ain't  it  Sandy? 
Ouch!     You  snuggling  slobber, 
Don't  eat  my  face. 
Come!     Lie  down  on  the  blankets, 
Fleas  and  all.    I  love  you — Dog. 
What  if  you  are  an  idolater? 
You'll  grow. 

47 


Listen  to  the  choir  of  heaven 

Singing  in  the  brook. 

The  fairies  are  waking. 

The  dusk  is  growing. 

See  the  tree  that  towers  above  us, 

Bearing  his  great  green  torch 

Kissed  to  golden  fire  by  the  sinking  sun. 

Night  slips  in  quickly  in  this  canyon. 

It's  dark  already. 

Look  how  the  trees  stand  out, 

Black  black  against  the  blue  black  of  the  sky, 

Why, — The  stars  are  in  the  branches. 

These  trees  hang  head  downward  from  the  earth, 

And  yielding  shining  fruits 

Drop  them  on  the  skyee  ground. 

How  quiet  it  is. 

The  bells  that  tinkle  in  the  brook 

But  spread  the  hush. 

The  living  folk  around  sleep  late  tonight. 

No!    But  feel! 

The  darkness  waits  for  something. 

The  air  itself  expects. 

Ah  Look. 

Up  the  canyon  the  sky  is  lighting. 

Softly  as  love  the  golden  tide  comes 

Creeping  thru  the  trees 

Flooding  magic  into  every  leafy  crevice. 

A  new  world  has  come 

Borne  on  the  flood  of  liquid  moonlight. 

The  people  of  the  wood  are  all  astir. 

The  mice  trip  swiftly  along 

Their  arching  bridgework 


48 


Formed  of  interlacing  saplings 

Bent  down  by  winter  snows. 

A  deer  comes  slowly  stepping  thru  the  ferns, 

To  the  brook. 

Squeak  and  piping  of  the  eager  living 

Fill  the  golden  silver  air. 

Some  day-birds  snuggly  perched  and  sleeping 

From  their  dreams  salute  the  moon 

With  a  few  stray  bars  of  twitters. 

An  owl  barks  up  and  down  the  valley 

And  borne  far  on  the  mysterious  air 

Sounds  the  mellow  bellow  of  a  distant  bull. 

Oh  Sandy. 

Life  creeps  in  and  soaks  all  thru  me 

As  the  light  floods  thru  the  trees, 

The  glory  of  our  thicket 

Is  the  magic  that's  in  me. 

You  can't  catch  that  rat,  you  frisky  pup, 

But  of  course  you  want  to  try. 

Go  to  it  Sandy. 

I'm  alive.    I  love.    I'll  find  her. 

She  is  here  tonight. 

They've  driven  us  out 

Into  Heaven. 

Hooray  Sandy.    We're  alive. 


49 


River 

There  is  a  river  that  I  know, 

Where  fleecy  shapes  sail  down  below 

Across  the  under  sky. 

Where  tender  sun  warmed  kisses  blow, 

And  blue  the  silent  amber  flow, 

For  folks  like  you  and  I. 

Our  river  wanders  thirty  miles, 

With  scarce  a  frown  mixed  with  his  smiles 

From  pond  to  salty  bay. 

Thru  woods  and  meadows,  swamps  and  hills, 

Past  farms  and  towns,  and  high  stacked  mills, 

Our  stream  flows  calm  or  gay. 

The  dreamy  air  breathes  thru  the  door, 

Scatt'ring  papers  on  the  floor, 

And  beckons  us  to  go. 

We're  more  than  men,  we're  only  boys, 

And  not  yet  dead  to  earthy  joys 

We're  coming — river  that  I  know. 


One  morning  when  the  world  is  grey, 
And  mist  hangs  low  at  break  of  day 
Before  the  rising  sun, 
We  lift  our  light,  clean-lined  canoe, 
Across  the  grass,  wet-laced  with  dew, 
And  in  the  water  run  her  nose, 
And  softly  slide  her  out,  till  she's  afloat — 
I'll  take  the  stern — you  clamber  in, 
-We're  off- 
Silent  at  first,  we  drink  the  air — 
— Dip  paddle  strong, 


50 


— Grunt  when  you  heave, 

— Lift  her  along, 

— Fresh  muscles  limbering  up. — 

As  we  cut  on  thru  the  wreathing  mist, 

The  vapor  blanket  splits  at  last, 

While  breathing  deep,  we  slip  on  past  the  little  rocky 

island. 

And  then  we  see,  rolling  beyond 
The  distant  trees  that  fringe  the  pond, 
The  grey  blue  wooded  hills. 
— Soft  low  New  England  lazy  hills, 
That  roll  like  long  calm  ocean  swells 
At  rest  in  grey  enchantment. 
Ahead,  across  the  glassy  grey, 
The  tree  crowned  bank  of  gravel  breaks 
To  let  the  waters  out. 
— Supple  and  warm — swinging  along, 
— Rhythmic  we  dip,  to  the  lilt  of  our  song, 
And  slip  into  the  narrow  lane  of  water 
A  scant  canoe  length  wide, 

That  winds  and  twists  among  the  wild  and  tender  marshes 
And  the  brambled  copses. 
— Sliding  swiftly  'round  the  turns 
Our  paddles  churn,  to  outwit  the  current. 
— A  startled  pickerel  flashes  by, 
An  arrow  'gainst  the  sandy  sky  below, 
When  caught  up  by  the  clear  swift  flow 
Beneath  the  old  stone  bridge  we  go,  and  on  and  on. 
— Up  that  gentle  sloping  grassy  bank, 
Under  the  close  clump  of  pines — 
The  Gang — 

Stale  from  beakers,  books  and  calculations, 
Gaily  lazed  and  played  thru  spring  vacations, 
Singing  droll  and  ribald  lamentations 


51 


E're  the  Juggernaut  crushed  down. 

— Now  they've  scattered  thru  the  nations. 

— There's  the  Old  Lone  Pine  up  on  the  rock, 

That  Hop  with  much  meandering  talk, 

Named  the  eggnog  for, 

That  time  he  mixed  ten  quarts  of  milk  with  eggs  for  eight 

And  we  sat  late 

Around  the  fire  and  finished  it. 

— Now  the  swift  flow  slackens 

As  the  river  opens  into  a  pond 

Where  a  mill  clanks. 

Gently  we  ground  upon  the  gravel — 

Then  across  the  road  we  travel  lugging  all, 

And  launch  upon  the  shallow  racing  stream. 

Down  we  slip  quietly  thru  the  back  yards  of  a  town, 

Dodging  the  sunken  rocks  whose  jagged  crown 

Is  hooded  by  flowing  water  wimples, 

Swirling  their  velvet  and  bubbles  away 

Thru  night  and  day. 

Past  litter  and  debris — 

— Tin  cans  in  heaps  and  cotton  waste  that  slicks  the 

surface 

With  patches  of  oily  skum 
That  spread  their  rainbows  in  the  sun, 
We  sweep  on,  while  time,  and  distance  paint 
And  cleanse  industries'  slavish  taint  away. 
— There  beneath  those  oaks, 
Asleep  in  plush  lined  jewel  cases, 
Under  close  cropped  level  lawns, 
Lie  rotting  bodies  of  the  dead; 
Most  cherished  after  life  has  fled. 
— Here,  having  wandered  north  enough, 
The  river  swings  meandering  west. 
— Thru  swampy  forests,  now  we  float, 


52 


— Our  amber  highway  flowing  smoothly, 

Picks   us  up   and  keeps   us   going   on   our  way, 

Whether,  on  a  straight  and  tree  walled  drafty  reach 

We  buck  the  wind  and  short  steep  waves 

The  current  helps  to  make — 

— Or  idly  drift  along  the  quiet  places 

Where  sunning  turtles,  startled  wake 

At  sound  of  voices,  sight  of  faces, 

Or  plash  and  swish  of  paddles, 

And  slip  and  slither  in  and  disappear. 

— High  on  a  dead  branch, 

Often,  a  crow  caws  at  intrusion  of  men  on  his  gang 

And  leaps  aflutter  into  the  racing  air — 

Then  rights  and  flies  off,  while  the  robbers 

Take  care  to  keep  well  out  of  gunshot. 

— Oh,  birds  and  muskrats  and  cows  in  the  meadows 

And  many  other  people — but  no  men  for  ten  miles. 

— At  the  old  deserted  broken  dam 

We  all  excited  let  her  slam; — 

It's  only  two  feet  drop — why  stop  and  carry? 

A  little  wet?  what  then? — A  thrill — 

We're  thru  and  down  the  race  already 

And  floating  on  again  all  steady  as  a  stately  minuet. 

— Suddenly,  around  a  turn, 

We  flow  into  another  river  and  go  on — 

Bending  south  now — 

Under  bridges,  past  meadows  and  woodlots 

And  stone  walled  farms 

And  long  narrow  islands  with  trees  full  of  charms 

For  the  wise  young  feathered  lovers 

That  wish  seclusion  in  their  homes. 

Till  the  stacks  we've  seen  from  far,  are  near. 

And  at  the  big  dam — stretching  legs, 

We  carry  down  the  stony  hill, 


53 


While  the  children  of  the  mill 

Lug  our  paddles — yell  and  curse, 

And  point  out  the  water  ladder 

Built  to  help  the  spawning  herring  and  the  shad 

Climb  the  dam  on  their  sad  eager  pilgrimage. 

Five  more  miles  of  soft  country  down  stream 

Then  across  the  road,  along  the  bank  are  seen 

Houses — growing  closer  and  closer  and  close. 

We're  going  to  the  city  almost. 

There's  where  the  city  lovers  walk  'long  the  river  road 

And  look  down  into  the  starry  water 

As  they  lean  upon  the  fence  that  tops  the  wall 

That  holds  the  road  from  the  hungry  river. 

— There's  the  boat  club — boyhood  palace  of  delight, 

— That  yellow  building  on  the  right, 

With  floats  and  open  sliding  doors, 

And  Cap,  there,  smoking  at  his  chores. — 

—"Hello  Cap"— "No— No  stop  today." 

— We  slip  along  upon  our  way. 

Under  trestles — more  back  yards — 

Then  past  the  mills,  where  spills 

The  waste  that  spoils  the  hole, 

Us  kids  possessed  before  they  built  there. 

There's  the  stump  we  dove  from; 

And  there's  the  tree  the  rope  was  in 

We  used  to  swing  and  fly  from,  into  the  water, 

Like  merry  brown  skinned  frogs  at  play 

In  and  out  all  day. 

— Around  the  turn  we  swing,  and  glide 

Down  thru  a  straight  highway 

Of  water;  lined  with  ranks  of  piles, 

— Uniform,    grey,    unthinking   soldiers 

Bearing  upon  their  sturdy  shoulders 

The  drab  romantic  warehouses, 


54 


Looming  high — to  form  a  canyon, 

From  whose  wooden  faces,  dusty  windows — 

Like  stolid  bleary  eyes — unblinking — 

Watch  the  watery  street  . 

That  schooner  there's  discharging  wheat. 

There's  another  loading  brick, 

While  those  barges  brought  up  coal. 

Fetch  and  carry,  is  the  goal 

Of  all  these  clumsy  hookers. 

— At  the  bridge  now — two  onlookers, 

— Dawdling  boys — spit  upon  us  as  we  pass, 

— Then  run  across  to  spit  again 

And  find  we're  out  of  reach. 

— A  half  mile  more,  thru  littered  scum, 

Some  trees  appear  and  here  we  come, 

Upon  the  green  hem  of  the  town, 

To  the  low  squatting  sheds,  where  Brown 

With  loving  cunning  in  his  hands, 

Deftly  marries  wood  and  metals 

Fair  and  smoothe  as  lily  petals, 

'Til  they  blossom  into  beauty 

As  the  living  hulls  of  yachts. 

— And  hard  by,  along  the  bank, 

Like  floating  coffins  in  a  rank, 

Are  square  ended  painted  boxes, 

Serving  well  as  labor  ferries 

From  village  homes  to  whirring  mills. 

— Look!     Here  comes  a  sail! 

— A  patchwork  quilt,  set  from  a  pole, 

Stepped  at  one  end  of  a  scow, 

— Discarded  by  men,  for  see  how  the  boy 

Amidships,  is  bailing  with  the  handleless  shovel, 

While  the  helmsman  steers  with  a  broken  oar, 

Into  the  new  world  that  opens  from  their  own  back  door. 


55 


— As  they  slip  on  swiftly,  before  the  soft  breeze 

That  drops  down  to  play  with  them  out  of  the  trees 

We  sweep  on  smoothly  'round  John  R.'s  sharp  turn, 

Where  the  deep  puffing  tug, 

Like  a  brawny  young  bug  with  a  string  of  big  worms, 

Shortens  hawse  on  the  barges,  and  waits, 

Till  the  nose  of  the  leader  the  far  bank  has  neared, 

— Then  yanks  at  right  angles,  puffing  hard  till  they've 

cleared 
The   button   hook   corner — and   straighten    out   for   the 

docks. 

— Now  the  gentle  smooth  slope 
Of  the  salt  water  hill,  sweeping  in  from  the  sea, 
Pulled  along  on  a  tether  by  its  mistress  the  moon 
— Like  a  wedge,  lifts  the  edge  of  the  ebb,  till  it  slacks, 
And  soon  the  fresh  waters  slide  quietly  back 
Up  the  well  worn  track. 
— We  escape  the  flooding  tide, 
By  paddling  close  along  inside 
The  channel  turns,  and  slide  into  friendly  eddies 
Playing  back  behind  the  bends. 
— Over  streaming  water  grasses,  now  we  glide, 
— Poling  in  the  shallow  places 
— Paddling  down  the  breezy  reaches, 
As  we  closely  hug  the  turns. 
In  the  meadows,  'long  the  banks, 
Quiet  cows  with  swelling  flanks, 
Lift  their  heads;  and  churning  jaws, 
Stare — till  luscious  grasses 

Pull  their  thoughts  from  that  which  passes  innocently  by. 
— That  little  dock  of  pasture  rock 
With  the  skiff  moored  near, 
And  the  farm  house  snuggling  south  of  the  hill, 
And  the  yard  walled  in  by  silent  pines, 

56 


With  scratching  hens  upon  the  lawn, 

And  ducks  along  the  river  fringe, 

Is  Dugan's  place. 

Where  the  tired  business  man, 

Pressed  hard  by  cankerous  woes, 

Often  goes  to  hold  committee  meetings, 

With  Dugan's  pretty  sweetings. 

That's  one  there,  waving  from  the  porch  and  calling. 

— We  toss  our  paddles  and  are  gone 

Around  the  turn  and  thru  the  Needles, 

Where  the  racing  current  boils  among  the  sharp  rock 

pinnacles. 

— Those  slimy  green-black  timbers, 
Like  the  bones  of  some  slain  monster, 
Are  the  ribs  of  the  American  Eagle, 
That  years  ago  was  run  aground — in  flames, 
When  heavy  freighted  with  Hibernians  on  their  picnic. 
— Yes,  all  were  saved  but  three  too  drunk  to  move 
Who  stayed  asleep. 

— Now  the  flood  is  brackish  with  the  sea, 
And  every  turn  the  river  broadens  out. 
Wide,  brown-green  marshes  spread  back  to  the  wooded 

hills 

And  the  reaches  are  longer. — 

— Our  paddles  grow  heavy  and  we  sweat  in  the  sultry  air. 
— Great  pillars  of  cloud  rear  halls  in  the  west 
Roofed  over  by  thunder  heads, 
Where  gather  the  hosts  of  the  lightning  blast. 
— And  phantasmal  forces  march  thru  the  air 
Filming  the  blue  with  burnished  brass, 
As  they  weave  a  curtain  before  the  sun. 
— The  breeze  drops  still,  as  we  slip  along — 
— Small  birds  hop  fluttering,  empty  of  song 
To  the  caves  of  the  dense  twigged  bush, 


57 


And  the  air  is  tense  with  the  ominous  hush 

Of  violence  testing  his  chains. 

— The  giant  growls — a  fish  jumps  near, 

And   while   the   running    circles    spreading — disappear 

upon  the  flowing  glass, 
The  darkness  narrows  in. 
Our  paddles  leave  boiling  holes  behind 
As  we  lift  along  for  the  sheltering  roof 
Of  the  fish  shed  round  the  point. 
As  we  ground  upon  the  sandy  beach, 
From  down  the  river — up  the  reach 
Comes  a  rushing  line  of  white. 
Now  the  squall  swoops  on  in  its  frenzied  might, 
While  its  fangs  drip  raging  clouds  of  spume, 
When, — canoe  bottom  up,  in  the  lee  of  the  shack, 
To  its  rage  we  send  our  laughter  back. 
Then  we  go  inside  'mong  the  tubs  of  brine 
And  the  pickling  fish,  and  the  line  on  line 
Of  herring,  hung  on  sticks. 
— Now  the  shed  is  lit  by  a  lightning  flash 
And  thru  the  door,  we  see  the  crash 
Of  a  falling  branch  from  a  riven  oak. 
— New  fury  sweeps  thru  the  screeching  air 
Shaking  our  refuge,  till  midst  the  creak  of  beams, 
Some  shingles  fly,  like  storm  driven  birds, 
Grey  hurtling  streaks,  down  the  leaden  sky. 
— On  our  flesh — each  hair's  atingle 
With  expectant  imps  electric, 
That  itch  to  dance  and  mingle 
With  the  unwalled  cauldron  of  destruction. — 
Hgh — The  shed  rocks  blank  with  light, 
— A  dead'ning  blue  and  white  that  stabs  with  a  ripping 

crash, 
From  sky  to  earth,  cracking  the  air  to  splintered  chasms. 


58 


Now  comes  the  rain. 

Smooth  speeding,  with  a  swelling  roar,  it  comes. 

— Thru  a  crack,  we  see  the  grey  wall  of  drops 

Marching  over  the  water's  white  and  black, 

Flattening,  with  its  countless  hordes, 

The  river's  wave  ribbed  back  into  a  flood  of  smoky  pearl, 

Apimple  dimple,  with  the  falling  crystal  spheres. 

— And  the  wind  dies  as  the  rain  grows. 

— While  the  flashes  run  over  the  hills 

And  the  thunder's  pursuit  gradually  stills — 

We  light  our  pipes  and  the  fragrant  blue  smoke 

Weaves  sweet,  thru  the  salt  fishy  smells. 

—We  sit  among  the  finny  dead. 

— The  run  is  over  now — 

But  there's  the  capstan  in  the  rain, 

The  old  horse  walks  and  walks  around, 

When  winding  in  the  brown  meshed  net, 

Where  all  his  master's  hopes  are  set, 

That,  as  the  line  of  corks  close  in, 

The  strong,  high  booted  men,  may  bail 

A  flopping  stream,  of  irredescent  silver  life, 

Into  many  dripping  baskets. 

Both  horse  and  men,  inside  their  fence, 

Drip  sweat  and  grunt  for  master's  pence. 

— The  rain  slacks  up. — The  air  is  fresh. 

The  sun  in  a  golden  flood  breaks  thru. 

While  over  the  distant  hills. 

The  grey  drops  dance  with  the  pure  white  light, 

And  band  the  sky  in  their  arched  delight. 

So  we  launch  on  the  stream  again. 

— As  we  leave  the  shore,  one  sun  shower  more, 

Falls  sweetly  as  the  quiet  tears, 

That  calm  poor  sorrow's  wracking  sobs 

After  anger's  havoc  tread. 

59 


— The  flooding  tide — intent  unswerved 
Comes  swelling  on  and  in, 

While  our  buttocks  warm,  dry  the  cold  wet  drops 
On  our  slim  canoe's  cane  seats,  as  we  ply  on  down  the 
river, 

The  hillsides  smile  with  freshened  green 

And  all  our  world's  once  more  serene. 

— A  fish  hawk  soars  high  in  the  air 

— Then  quickly  poised — with  a  pushing  dive, 

Like  an  arrow  self  shot  from  the  sky — he  plops, 

To  soon  bob  up,  and  slowly  fly 

On  heavy  wings,  with  a  silver  gleam 

Held  tight  in  taloned  claws. 

— Over  the  water  wafts  familiar  sound, 

— The  same  old  tune  from  the  merry-go-round 

At  the  park — where  some  picnickers,  undismayed, 

Jostle  ghosts  of  Sunday's  highkeyed  crowd, 

With  single  shouts,  that  echo  loud 

'Mong  the  empty  halls  of  work  slaves'  joy. 

And  we  slip  on  past  these  pregnant  tombs, 

— These  roofs  where  death — new    life    enwombs,    that 

masters  dare  not  touch, 
Past  the  yacht  club,  standing  out  on  stilts 
In  the  river,  mid  the  anchored  fleet, 
With  whom,  some  suck  from  ocean's  teat, 
The  milk  of  nature's  law, 
And  grow  to  know,  all  seas  and  coasts  'are  born  to  be 

explored. 

While  Harmony  implored, 

Engulfs  the  angry  tooth  and  claw,  in  deeps  of  beauty, 
Where  bursting  suns  are  glowing  drops  of  spray  blowing 

past. 

— But  here  we  are  at  Somerset. 


60 


— The  old  stone  wharves — the  scrap  iron  heaps  beside 

the  silent  shops, 
Whisper,  that  Ohio  lured  the  town's  industries  to  her 

ready  ores — 
And  now,  the  village  sleeps,  while  every  year  the  living 

green 

Creeps  in  upon  the  mouldering  works. 
— Beneath  the  high  arched  hallway  of  the  elms, 
That  guide  the  stony  lane  straight  down  the  hill, 
A  straggling  column  came  one  Sunday  afternoon. 
— Ahead,  the  preacher  and  the  deacons  led  the  way. 
— Then  came  the  ardent  women  and  the  sombre  men, 
— Then,  seven  or  eight  young  girls  and  three  young  men, 

all  singing. 
— And  like  a  tail  of  rags  behind  a  kite,  came  several 

tumbling  boys  and  dogs,  with  intermittent  mimicry. 
— And  three  or  four  easy  men  with  restful  pipes. 
— And  two  sleek  girls  in  modish  clothes. — 
— Down  to  the  sandy  beach  between  two  wharves,  the 

singers  come. 

The  preacher  turns  to  face  his  flock,  that  huddles  close. 
— Without  the   fold,   the   stray   sheep   string   along   the 

wharf,  and  watch  in  quiet  derision, 
While  on  the  swelling  flood,  beneath  the  leaden  sky,  we 

hold  our  paddles  still. 

— The  preacher  lifts  his  voice  in  prayer,  and  prays — 
— Till  boys  and  dogs  lose  hope,  and  slip  thru  fidgets, 

into  play, 

And  one  man  takes  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  to  say — 
"Keep  still  there  Bill — or  else  go  home." 
And  Bill  slips  off  behind  a  cask  and  makes  old  Rover 

beg  till  Rover  barks. 

A  sprinkle  falls  and  Deacon  Blood  with  grave  solicitude, 
Erects  his  great  umbrella,  above  the  Reverend  Smythe — 

61 


At  last  the  droning  ends. 

— Spectators  crowd  close  to  the  edge,  along  the  grey 

rock  wharf. 
— The  Reverend  Smythe  throws  off  his  cloak,  and  in  a 

rubber  suit, 
Speaks  solemnly  to  three  good  souls  that  wish  to  lose 

their  sin. 
He  takes  the  hand  of  one — they  walk  down  to  the  placid 

edge, 
And  thus  they  both  wade  in,  while  Deacon  Blood  protects 

the  head  of  Reverend  Smythe  from  falling  drops. 
Out  wade  the  seeking  two,  but  Blood  remains  on  shore — 
The  sinners  in  their  Sunday  clothes 
Are  ducked  beneath  the  cold  grey  flood. — 
The  saved,  heave  sighs, 
— The  folks  along  the  wharf,  all  laugh  at  the  bedraggled 

seekers. 
— "Give  me  a  diving  suit  and  I'll  baptize"  one  saucy 

vagrant  cries. 
— "Go  fetch  it,  Rover,  fetch  it  boy,"  says  Bill  and  slyly 

throws  a  stick, 
And  Rover,  barking,  splashes  in,  close  to  the  Reverend 

Smythe — 

— The  congregation  marches  off. 
— The  smoking  men  look  on  amused  and  sit  while  others 

straggle. 

And — Yes — The  young  go  west, 
The  old  folks  die — The  works  were  famous  once. 
— Just  two  miles  more  and  we'll  make  camp 
In  the  shack  upon  the  bluff — 
— The  sun  slips  down  behind  the  hills, 
The  promise  of  a  new  day,  fills 
The  sky  with  dream  mixed  fire  mosaics, 
That  shift  their  luminous  veils  of  light, 


62 


Till  day  is  wrapped  within  the  night, 

And  points  shine  thru  the  dusky  lakes  of  blue 

Lapped  'mong  the  smouldering  clouds. 

— While  our  paddles  lift  and  dip  on, 

Thru  the  falling  dusk  we  slip  on, 

In  the  rhythmic  swing  that  now  is  in  our  blood. 

— A  duck  calls  from  the  grasses, 

Feeding,  splashing  where  the  marshes 

Are  awash  beneath  the  salty  rising  flood. 

— And  along  the  western  shore,  the  shadows  press, 

To  stretch  a  sombre  belt  of  dark, 

Between  the  tree  pierced  sky  above, 

And  tree  pierced  sky  below. 

— Here,  where  the  rivers  meet, 

High  tide  transforms  the  point,  into  an  island, 

Brooding  in  wierd  mystery,  as  we  glide, 

Water  borne,  across  the  pebbly  isthmus,  that  two  hours 

since  was  dry, 
And  swing  out  into  the  friendly  current  sweeping  up 

towards  journey's  end. 
Ah! — There's  the  good  old  shanty — on  the  bluff  among 

the  trees. 

— We'll  land  above  it  in  the  little  cove, 
Where  glacial  ice  strewn  boulders — when  its  rough, 
Tame  the  sharp  waters  into  rippling  gentleness, 
And  enclose  a  perfect  landing  for  canoe  or  skiff. 
The  bow  grates  gently  on  the  sand. 
We  rest  a  moment — ere  we  land. 
Then  stretch — and  lift  the  dunnage  out, 
— Upturn  her  bottom — fair  and  sweet, 
Where  slim  clean  birches,  poise  on  feet 
Firm  anchored  in  the  gully  sides, 
And  make  a  cradle  safe  from  tides 
And  suns  and  prankish  winds — no  doubt — . 


63 


Then  with  stiff  legs — lug  stuff  up  hill, 

To  where  the  shanty, — dark  and  still, 

Waits  us,  in  dusky  welcoming — 

— One  lights  the  stove — the  other  goes 

Along  the  path  on  active  toes, 

To  fill  the  jugs,  at  the  cool  spring 

Beneath  the  low  branched  knarly  oak. 

— And  walking  back,  rests  many  times 

To  watch  the  after  glow  below 

In  the  river's  mirror,  winding  off 

Into  the  distant  hills  all  pricked  with  lights. 

— Then  after  feeding, — good  sweet  smokes, 

And  pleasant  talk, — and  whimsy  jokes, 

When,  lying  on  our  blankets  there, 

Out  near  the  bluff-edge,  on  the  grass, 

From  where,  deep  in  the  river's  glass, 

We  see  the  stars,  beneath  the  pines 

That  hang  down  dark  in  ragged  lines 

From  the  black  ridge  of  the  sunken  hill. 

— Until — words  melt  unspoken  into  dreams 

Rich  in  delight — thru  the  still  night — on  the  river. 


64 


By  worms  that  burrow  thru  translucent  flesh 
Of  thought,  emitted  from  the  poet's  womb, 
Grey  words  are  woven  fondly  to  enmesh 
The  mounting  wings  of  music  in  their  doom. 
But  searching  form  for  that  that  form  doth  make, 
The  eye  but  holds  the  mirror  up  to  death, 
As  when  a  desert  thirst  beholds  the  lake 
Miraged,  floating  on  the  sand's  hot  breath. 
So  let  me  Beauty,  drift  beyond  with  thee — 
Locked  in  thine  heart,  mine  own  would  happy  rest, 
Tasting  thru  smiling  tears,  Eternity, 
Knowing  our  wanton  children  to  be  best. 

Oh  give  me  love,  that  only  Love  can  give — 
Thine  law  transcending  Light — that  I  may  live. 


65 


If  thou,  in  infancy,  so  radiant  bloom, 

Out  heralding  the  symbol  bearing  flowers — 

So  glow,  effulgent,  thru  thine  pearly  doom 

Of  mortal  slime — whence  come  thine  wholesome  powers? 

Is  it,  that  thou,  by  happy  accident, 

Illume  the  red  ruled  earth,  to  fade  again, 

A  withered  stalk,  obeying  precedent 

Of  ignorance,  that  craven  god  of  men? 

Or  rather  thou,  the  harbinger  of  day — 

A  tiny  sun,  enwrapped  in  mist  of  night — 

Thy  show'ring  beams  of  love,  in  mirthfilled  play, 

Awakening  the  dark,  to  prime  delight? 

Deep  in  the  heavens  of  thine  tender  eyes 

Dear  babe,  shines  that,  that  first  declared  the  skies. 


66 


Where  are  the  flying  beams  that  left  the  sun 

In  swelling  globes  ten  million  years  ago? 

Do  those  unmet  by  wafting  spheres,  yet  run 

To  kiss  opaqueness  to  her  painted  glow? 

And,  on  some  rolling  island  in  the  vast 

Etheric  sea,  do  lovers,  walking  far 

Along  a  lonely  beach,  now,  from  the  past 

See  gleaming  o'er  the  waves — our  sun — their  star? 

That  past  that  shines  so  presently  for  them 

Embedded  in  the  dust  of  ancient  stars — 

What  if  those  gazing  eyes,  pronounce  a  gem 

Of  love,  the  orb  of  fire  that  feeds  our  wars? 

For  past  and  future  are  but  varied  views 
Of  One  Eternal  Mind  in  constant  muse. 


67 


Beauty's  perfection  is  perfected  use; 
And  only  love  is  service — He  doth  add 
To  what  he  hath  by  giving  with  a  loose 
And  thriftless  hand,  an  endless  substance 
Clad  with  increase — bounty  of  a  boundless  mind 
Divorced  from  labour's  gain.    A  quiet  pleasure 
Hath  he,  in  giving  what  he  soon  doth  find 
Embellished  by  partition  of  his  treasure. 
His  ease  in  action  bears  him  sweetest  rest, 
The  daughter  men  call  Beauty — Tho  she  flees 
When  Adamf  sweats,  afraid  to  linger,  lest 
He  stay  contented,  delving,  on  his  knees, 

She  creeps  to  love  stilled  minds,  and  naked,  with 
her  hair 

She  wipes  their  tear  anointed  feet — and  she  is  fair. 


68 


It  is  in  thee,  Love's  daughter,  that  my  Christ 

Is  born — Thy  kiss  in  me  is  virginal, 

Since  Time's  adult'rous  fast  from  thee,  sufficed 

To  turn  me  back  to  mine  original. 

For  Beauty's  son  has  power  of  death  o'er  Death. 

His  smile  of  Light  rolls  back  the  pillared  cloud 

Black  frozen  by  the  cold  destroyer's  breath, 

Inviting  home  my  heart  all  humbly  proud. 

As  waking  from  the  dream,  my  smile  returns 

To  thee — between  death's  wisping  mist,  the  fields 

Are  carpeted  with  amour's  bloom  that  yearns 

In  calm  expectancy  to  drink  my  rain. 

And  all  is  Thee — Eternal  Virgin,  pure, 

And  I  am  drenched  with  Thee — and  still — and 


sure. 


69 


Thy  beauty  is  a  fecund  power  that  wakes 

In  me  the  sleeping  seed  of  a  great  strength 

Thine  am'rous  sun  by  quickening  remakes 

To  flourish  in  my  heart,  until  at  length, 

The  grim  hard  chin  of  fear's  offensive,  rounds 

In  love's  sweet  feeling  curves  to  meet  my  lips, 

The  former  fortress  of  beleaguered  sounds 

Now  mirth-drawn  portals  thru  which  music  slips. 

Mine  eyes  that  kiss  thee  with  each  look,  have  changed 

Their  lights,  and  bless  thee  with  the  dew  of  ruth. 

All  pathways  that  my  questing  thoughts  have  ranged 

But  bring  me  back  to  find  in  thee,  new  truth. 

Only  in  love  lives  that  that  changes  not 
Or  from  her  perfect  womb  is  beauty  brought. 


70 


Not  of  the  world  that  seems  to  be,  is  that 
Still  music,  love  doth  spell  me  in  at  night, 
When  on  thine  globing  breasts  my  own  more  flat 
Breast  floats,  and  from  thine  mouth  I  sip  delight. 
For  let  me  cast  myself  in  that  soft  sea 
Thine  golden  ripples  spread  beyond  our  verge, 
And  freighted  rich  with  splendour,  back  to  me, 
More  I,  than  ere  our  union,  I  emerge. 
From  whence,  then,  sounds  the  vital  glowing  chord 
That  stills  the  raving  howlings  of  the  earth? 
Doth  unsuspected  good  with  love's  sweet  sword 
Cut  thru  the  laws  of  death  to  our  rebirth? 

Knowing  not  much,  I  yet  know  surely  this, 
All  good  or  evil  sleeps  within  a  kiss. 


71 


I  call  it  health  when  I  unconscious  am 

Of  any  sense  of  being  less  or  more; 

When  like  a  word  within  an  epigram 

Composed  by  God,  I  join  the  instant  shore 

Of  Time,  to  Harmony's  Eternity, 

And  know  His  copula's  rewarding  bliss; 

In  place  of  blood's  necessity;  stars,  sea 

And  mountains,  flowing,  bring  me  beauty's  kiss. 

And  in  those  times  of  health,  I  sometimes  feel, 

Dawning  command  of  other  legs  and  arms 

Than  mine;  smooth  muscled  as  transparent  steel, 

They  move  a  sun  or  city,  by  sweet  charms, 

Not  uttered  and  unthought,  but  still  inhering. 

In  marriage  with  his  God,  that  Man  is  nearing. 


72 


I  hear  men  talk  of  Jesus,  and  each  one 
Re-images  his  own  reformed  conceit 
As  Him — The  great  Columbus  from  the  Sun, 
Who  sailed  o'er  chaos  to  our  sin's  retreat. 
But  he  whose  words  were  cast  upon  the  deeps, 
Is  heard,  when  deeps  hark  unto  deeps,  for  then 
The  star  of  Morning,  to  the  Christ  that  sleeps 
In  each,  guides  Wisdom  to  his  home  again. 
And  Wisdom  home,  repaves  the  heaving  sea 
With  waves  of  fire  thrown  by  his  kindling  eyes, 
When,  walking  with  his  Father  down  the  lea 
Bright  sown  with  lights,  pain  drowns  in  Love's  surprise. 
My  Jesus  spills  the  seed  of  power  in  me 
Whose  taproots  seek  my  love's  fertility. 


73 


Look !    From  the  seed  of  power,  a  tree  unfolds ; 
A  Magi's  Tree.    The  foliage  is  stars 
Ablaze.    The  sap,  forever  green,  remoulds 
The  leaves  of  song  into  a  balm  for  wars. 
The  earth  glows  like  a  drop  of  fire  lit  pearl, 
Enamoured  of  his  crystal  globe  of  mist, 
The  moon,  and  lures  that  chastely  dancing  girl, 
Around  the  golden  apple  of  their  tryst. 
The  loves  of  all  of  ageless  time  are  there. 
Their  music  is  the  branches,  while  the  roots 
Twine  fingers  'mong  the  perfumes  of  thine  hair, 
And  all  the  forms  of  beauty  are  the  fruits. 

It  is  the  tree  from  seed  of  Christ  in  me. 

My  body  clothes  upon  my  Christmas  Tree. 


74 


If  it  was  fated  ere  the  mists  arose 
In  Eden,  that  we  two  should  join  in  one 
As  now,  I  find  fate  kind  or  else  suppose 
Our  life's  desire  designed,  ere  time  did  run. 

0  lovely  doom  is  life  with  thee — one  mind 

One  bone — one  flesh.    From  all  the  spread  out  all 

1  choose  thine  arms  and  life  is  wisely  blind 
If  our  delight  by  accident  befall. 

Our  homing  love's  desire  and  fate  are  wed. 
The  awful  journey's  end  rests  in  our  meeting. 
The  earth  holds  God  in  marriage  on  our  bed 
And  music  wings  the  laughter  of  her  greeting. 

Oh  Love — my  own  wild  Love.    Shall  we  throw  a 

kiss  at  death, 

Or   blow   the   old   tree    over   with   our   mingled 
breath. 


75 


As,  when  the  stars  prick  thru  the  resting  leaves, 
The  silence  is  but  heightened,  if  the  air, 
Along  the  river,  thrills  to  patterned  weaves, 
Of  sound,  flung  by  the  frog's  exultant  prayer; — 
So  the  vast  tapestry  of  liquid  tone, 
Forever  flowing,  from  the  poet's  tongue, 
Seems  but  a  fleeting  part,  of  the  world's  own 
Slow  crumbling  wall  of  strife, — unheard  tho  sung. 
Unheard  by  busy  men,  but  surely  saved, 
From  'mong  the  melting  echoes  of  the  past; — 
Immortal  promptings;   secret  cities, — laved 
In  beauty's  solace,  for  my  love's  repast. 

Only  o'er  waters  of  undoubting  peace, 

May  Love,  His  Silence  move  to  Man's  release. 


76 


I  Rode  a  Stallion 

I  rode  a  stallion,  wild  after  the  mare 

Who  draws  with  her  floating  tail  o'er  the  air 

The  tender  Dawn.    Her  creamy  flanks  and  legs, 

In  lissome  swiftness,  drifted  o'er  the  eggs 

Of  motion,  and  her  high  head, 

And  her  bright  far  glancing  eye, 

Rained,  o'er  the  Light  that  rode  her 

And  the  star  strewn  fields  she  trod, 

The  wonder  that  is  born,  when  darkness,  comprehending, 

Becomes. 

The  mare  sailed  on.    The  golden  earth  boomed  loud, 

And  spinning,  rolled,  beneath  my  mount's  black  feet. 

I  rode  the  stallion  through  a  crimson  cloud. 

His  heaving  frame  between  my  knees,  ran  black, 

A  dark  star,  flying  through  the  night; — His  back, 

Kept  level  in  our  swaying  smooth  career, 

Rocked  me  to  languor,  as  through  banks  of  drear 

Resounding  brass  and  chilled  steel,  clanging  loud, 

We  brushed,  dim  lighted  but  by  phosphorescent  eyes, 

Rolling  their  green  glow,  lidless,  at  the  skies, 

Whose  wide  flung  streaks,  of  thin  drawn,  fading  gold, 

Opened  their  points  before  us,  to  behind  refold, 

As  forever  the  mare  swept  on  ahead, 

And  ever  we  followed,  pursued  by  the  dead, 

Grey,  drab,  fury  in  her  rocking  chair, 

Unravelling  laughter; — knitting  despair; — 

Hovering  always  in  the  crimson  air, 

With  a  grey  flat  smile,  o'er  the  stallion's  head, 

'Til  his  eye  whites  wild,  rolled  at  me  with  dread, 

In  red  veined,  brown  smoked  yellow,  of  terror. 

77 


And  leaving  the  mare  to  her  own  free  quest, 
He  bolted  away  from  the  road's  red  jest, 
And  off  down  the  velvet  slopes  of  night, 
While  the  fury,  knitting  in  her  chair,  rocked  on 
In  the  wake  of  the  snow  faced  mare. 

Like  wind  down  a  valley  where  grey  blooms  wilt, 
The  scared  stallion  hurtled, — then  stopped  and  spilt 
Me  off  among  a  pile  of  skulls  that  rolled 
Beneath  my  weight  over  the  smooth  black  sod. 
Like  water,  I  lay  on  the  fat  grey  mould 
Of  That,  while  the  stallion  dejected,  fed 
Full  on  the  stones  in  the  Valley  of  Shade. 

Then  again  he  snorted,  pawed  and  snuffed  the  air, 
And  I  leaped  to  his  back  and  grasped  the  hair 
Of  his  rippling  mane  of  silken  night. 

Down,  down  the  black  valley,  like  low  skimming  birds 

We  flew  to  the  place  where  the  wave  rolling  words 

Of  the  world,  hurl  their  expanding  precipice, 

In  avalanchine  whirls — down  the  Abyss. 

Over  we  flew,  and  down  and  down, 

Where  space  thins  out,  till  none  can  drown, 

In  a  sky  so  false  that  breathing  has  no  reason  . 

Down  the  still  Void  we  falling  fell, 

Until  to  fall  became  inane, 

jf 

And  failure  lacked  resistance, 
And  was  insane. 

'Til  The  Smile  came — 
And  then — 

The  stallion  nickered  and  I  laughed  low. 
His  hoof  beats  rocked  o'er  the  bells  of  night. 

78 


They  hit  the  chimes  into  globes  of  light. 
The  darkness  listened,  and  kissed  the  glow 
Of  shadowed  light,  that  in  jeweled  snow, 
Fell  like  a  tent  from  the  star  tipped  poles, 
Of  the  crystal  sphere  that  arose  around 
The  teeming  forms  who  replenished  the  ground 
Of  the  dew  drenched  Day  that  the  Evening  found 
As  we  loped  along  in  the  Morning's  song, — 
Falling  away  together. 

As  a  star  dropped  out  of  the  blue  Abyss, — 
A  white  star  bright  as  a  silver  lake 
With  the  waters  of  time,  o'erflowing, — 
We  fell, — and  found  there,  bending  to  slake 
Her  thirsty  eyes, — 

That  smoothly  fleeing,  snow  faced  mare, 
Who  draws  with  her  floating  tail,  o'er  the  air, 
The  tender  Dawn — 
And  her  rider  was  gone, — 
And  she  whinnied. 


79 


ID     f 

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U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


